


pankratz family values

by shestepsintotheriver



Series: non-human Jaskier [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eskel/OFC brotp, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Geralt's season 2 armour, Geralt’s armour gets roasted by EVERYONE, Idiots in Love, Jaskier's family, Light Angst, M/M, Siblings, technically Jaskier is human in this one BUT THERE'S A TWIST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 07:27:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26968234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver
Summary: After the Mountain, Jaskier goes home to lick his wounds and write excessively petty songs of revenge. Definitely not heartbreak, no sir.After two weeks, his family has had enough. Because rhyming 'Witcher' with 'bitcher' is a godsdamned cry for help, alright?
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: non-human Jaskier [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785946
Comments: 478
Kudos: 1186
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> y'all were so incredibly enthusiastic about Jaskier's happy family dynamics, so i wrote a fic about his happy, dumbass family. enjoy!

Jaskier goes southeast to get to the coast. Alone. Because apparently, he has to do everything by himself around here. Not that he minds. Good riddance, he says! He’s having a _great_ journey; just him, his thoughts, and his lute. The weather is mild, and the air carries the scent of home—which is, not incidentally, where he’s going. The Redanian coast to him is childhood, love, and safety. And if a certain Witcher doesn’t care to come see that, well, screw him.

Jaskier will enjoy the godsdamned sea spray by himself and laugh as the waves pull at him. He will not be giving Geralt a single thought before Sir Prick comes crawling back to grumpily beg forgiveness (read: grunt sadly at Jaskier until Jaskier forgets he was ever mad in the first place. He’s a sucker for Geralt’s stupid eyes, alright?) Until then, Jaskier is going to enjoy life, surrounded by family, comfort, and musical inspiration.

At least, that’s what he tells himself all the way from the Dragon Mountains to his parents’ doorstep, where he promptly bursts into frustrated tears and flings himself at the first person he sees. Unfortunately, that person is his mother; she pats his back in a manner more desperate than soothing and hands him off to his father first chance she gets, fleeing to her laboratory and blessed safety from tears and snot. She will later emerge with a poison to cause itchy rashes in his enemies, because while she’s rather clumsy about the whole ‘people having emotions’ thing she really does love him.

His father, much more well-versed in emotional outbursts (and histrionics), lets Jaskier cry himself out on his shoulder and puts him to bed with a gentle, “we’ll talk properly tomorrow, when you’ve had your rest. Fiona is here, do you want me to send her up?”

Jaskier sniffles and mumbles, “Yes.”

He goes to sleep cuddled up against his big sister’s magnificently fluffy body.

*

In a family as large as Jaskier’s, having favourite siblings is a matter of life and death. Or at least, it can feel that way when they’re all together in one place and the inevitable arguing sets in. If you don’t have an alliance in place, you are going to end up the centre of attention and regret it forever.

Jaskier, as the baby of the family, has always had an unfair advantage: _being the baby of the family._ In the Pankratz family, seniority is a matter of grave importance; Jaskier has thirty-six siblings—they’re all adopted, calm down (though his parents definitely go at it often enough to have produced that many children, and more besides, from their own loins)—and being able to pull the “don’t upset the baby!” card used to be the end-all, be-all of family arguments. He—and his favourite siblings—sometimes still pull that card, just for the sake of it.

Still, despite the arguing and the alliances and the godsdamned getting-in-each-other’s-business, Jaskier loves them more than he can say. And he can say quite a lot. They’re _his_. They _chose him._ And he chose them back.

His childhood wasn’t easy, by any means. Being the only human in a family of assorted non-humans (some would say monsters, but Jaskier objects to that) means that more than a few of them have Opinions on how fragile Jaskier is. Which is _very_ , if you’re wondering. Their methods to deal with it range from ‘I must teach the baby to fend for himself’ to ‘oh gods, the baby is frowning, SHOW ME WHO DID THIS TO YOU’. What can he say, he came by his theatricality honestly. 

Jaskier would also like to say that his wildly varied childhood was what made him fearless, but alas, when he walked up to Geralt that fateful day in Posada, it had much less to do with being fearless and much more to do with his internal monologue of _prettyprettyprettyglowersadmustmakesmilegimme_. Which, by the way, many of his siblings have harangued him about, but they’ve never seen Geralt, they can’t possibly understand how lovely—that’s not the point.

He isn’t here to reminisce about his and Geralt’s first meeting, but to stew in the emotional mixture of anger, pride, and hurt. That he knows and understands why Geralt had yelled at him on the mountain is inconsequential. It doesn’t matter why. It was still cruel.

“How likely is it that I’m going to be able to breakfast in peace?” he whispers at Fiona. He wags her tail and sneezes. “That’s what I thought.”

He goes down to breakfast with Fiona dogging his heels (which, in her case, is quite literal). In the few seconds he has before pandemonium descends, he’s treated to the sight of his parents and the rest of his favourite siblings, Aiden, Dave, and Rosalind, seated around the breakfast table. His heart swells; how he’s missed them all. (He quickly comes to regret that thought).

His parents sit side by side, his mother scribbling avidly at a piece of paper and muttering about steeping and fermenting. His father calmly rescues the cups and cutlery she keeps elbowing off the table. Aiden sits to their left, fiddling with a knife, then Dave, who is daintily cutting up the food on his enormous plate. To their parents’ right is Rosalind, beautiful and terrible as always, and two empty seats for Jaskier and Fiona—Fiona’s chair has got a dressing gown draped across it, for easy coverage.

Around them, their mother’s skeleton constructs bustle to and fro, serving more food or cleaning up spills.

While their father has undoubtedly been keeping track of Jaskier and Fiona as they came down the stairs, Aiden is the first to rise to meet them. He nearly tips over the table in his haste—if it weren’t for Dave calmly slapping his giant palm down to keep the plates from ending up on the floor, Jaskier might have spent the morning both yelling _and_ covered in porridge.

Instead, he just ends up yelling.

Aiden, bless his heart, is not exactly… well-adjusted, emotionally speaking. They’ve never been quite sure if this trait is inherent, or if it were beaten out of him, or if it is the result of repeated resurrections fucking with his mental equilibrium. In any case, his good intentions when it comes to the emotional well-being of his siblings are often… a bit off the mark.

Which means that instead of drawing Jaskier in for a hug (Jaskier isn’t surprised that his siblings have learned of his reasons for being here; in the past decades, coming home has meant gushing over or cursing Geralt in equal measures), he offers to kill Geralt, which, _tempting_ , but _no, absolutely not._ Aiden, uncomprehending, asks if he’s saying no because he needs plausible deniability—which he needn’t worry about, Aiden can totally kill him quietly, which, again, _fucking no._ Aiden does not understand and has the audacity to ask, “What, are you in love with him or something?”

That is when the yelling starts, because that is an _audacious insult to Jaskier’s honour_.

It is also, sadly, entirely correct.

*

“That could’ve gone better,” his father says later. He’s dragged Jaskier off to the magically sound-proofed laboratory, away from prying eyes and ears. Aiden’s offer to kill Geralt would become a pledge if Aiden actually knew what exactly had happened between him and Jaskier. “At least no one died.”

“Mum would’ve just resurrected us,” Jaskier mutters.

“She would. But she’d also have complained about it for months.”

Jaskier grumbles.

His eyes sting a bit. He’s already told his father the hows and whys of his homecoming and in the progress shed more tears. He’s really pissed about those; how dare water leak from his eyes. He’s hurt, yes, but he’s not devastated or anything. No reason to be. He can handle Geralt saying that he’d have preferred to never have met Jaskier in the first place. He knows it’s a lie, that Geralt’s just an overwhelmed, emotional troglodyte who can’t put accurate words to feeling if his life depended on it. He’ll come around and regret what he said. Jaskier’s sure of this. 

His eyes sting some more. They are not allowed to do that.

“You can stay as long as you want, of course,” his father says, patting Jaskier’s hair and chuckling when Jaskier pushes into it. “But do try not to shank your siblings. The skeletons fret so. Also; the Viscount de Lettenhove wrote again, he wants you to stop using his title.”

“The Viscount can eat my ass,” Jaskier says mulishly. He does promise to try and avoid sibling-shanking. _Try_ being the operative word.

His father isn’t bothered by the Viscount thing. As a Pankratz himself—much as the noble Pankratzes would prefer that wasn’t true—he enjoys fucking with them on occasion as well. “Good lad. And if you want to talk about—”

“I’d rather die.”

“—your love for the Witcher, I’m always here. Your mother, too. Even if she isn’t quite sure how to talk about it. If she offers to curse him, just say no and walk away.”

Jaskier would rather be gored by a manticore, but the offer is appreciated nonetheless. Or at least, so he tells himself, but when his father gets up to give him some space, he blurts, “I asked him to come home with me.”

His father doesn’t gasp, but he does breathe sharply. He knows exactly what that invitation means. Jaskier is fiercely protective of their family, he’d never risk them for anything. And yet, that invitation had been issued. “Oh, lad. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It’s not. Jaskier doesn’t know why he said that.

Why are his godsdamned eyes stinging again?

*

In general, Jaskier isn’t an imposing figure. Sure, he’s tall and relatively broad, lithe and muscled as a dancer. You would be too, if you spent your life running around after a Witcher with your lute on your back. That is heavy-duty work. (As is fleeing married lovers’ bedchambers out the window before their spouses see him.)

But when it comes to fighting, he’s not exactly proficient. He’s grown up rough-housing with his siblings (both as a youth and, embarrassingly, as an adult, too), and if a fight came down to pinching, hair-pulling, and biting, he might stand a chance. (He’s also pretty nifty with the deployment of a strategy called ‘everything within reach counts as a blunted weapon, including chairs, lutes, and porridge bowls’.) None of which can safe him when his opponents pull their swords. With a prowess such as his, you’d think he tried to avoid fighting, but sadly, nature has impaired him with the temper of a slumbering bear—easily roused, prickly as fuck, and not real thought-through. 

All of this is to say that Jaskier ends up in a fair amount of rivalries, scrapes, and arguments. He’s not quite sure what his current… disagreement with Geralt might count as, but he knows for sure that his feelings are bruised, and he absolutely refuses to acknowledge it as heartbreak. Thus: petty wrath it is.

Which is why he deploys his favourite weapon—one he is even extraordinarily blessed with: words.

For the first week home, Jaskier pens so many rude ditties he could’ve based an entire semester’s curriculum on them. For the sake of variety, he throws some rude limericks in there, too, most of them focused on the way Geralt’s bottom fills out his pants and alluding to the Witcher’s dastardliness being as great as his ass.

(If the limerick writing sometimes becomes angry masturbation sessions where the abovementioned ass features even more heavily, then that’s no one’s business but Jaskier’s. He’s _distraught,_ damn it. Clearly, he gets a free pass for fantasizing about Geralt while he brings himself off. Which, you may be surprised to learn, is not a regular occurrence. He’s not completely deranged. There’s being in love with The Great Emotional Repressor and there’s acknowledging it in anyway, and Jaskier has tried very hard not to do that. He’s going to blame his current lack of restraint on Geralt. That bastard.)

In between, he bothers his siblings for review. Not on the masturbation, gods, but on his lyrical creations. Fiona and Dave humour him the most often; Fiona because she can stay in her wolf-form and thus avoid conversation, Dave because Dave is the nicest of them all and really doesn’t deserve being afflicted with a bunch of assholes for siblings. Aiden just tries to pry the whole story from him, not-at-all nonchalantly waving his knives about, and Rosalind makes the preposterous claim that if Jaskier had just boned Geralt, all of this would be moot.

“Seriously, it’s just fascination,” she says, flicking through Jaskier’s most recent creations without reading a single word. “If you’d been with him even once, I’m sure you would’ve gotten over it, like with all your other lovers.”

To which Jaskier stupidly replies, “Define ‘been with’.”

(There’d been that one time at the brothel when they’d shared a whore and Geralt had… honestly, Jaskier doesn’t know what the hell had happened. A brief bout of insanity, perhaps? He and Geralt hadn’t fucked or anything, but there had been a rather… delicate situation that nearly got them tossed out of the brothel entirely which had to do with snarling, very weird touching, and Geralt’s stupid eyes watching Jaskier like he was both the moon and the stars in the sky. Or, you know, a seven-course meal. Maybe a particularly well-loved childhood soft toy. _Something important._ )

Rosalind narrows her eyes, horror on her face. “Oh, gods. You’re in _love_ love. _Daaaad! Jaskier did something stupid again!_ ”

Really, he has no one to blame but himself.

*

For two weeks, he terrorizes his family with musical creations. Ditties, limericks, angry ballads. He finishes the song he’d been working on just before the dragon hunt and then refuses to play it again. Some of the words he can barely think without feeling like he’s going to start vomiting jealousy.

After the tenth song rhyming ‘Witcher’ and ‘bitcher’, Aiden slips out the door and into the night, a slightly manic expression on his face. Jaskier doesn’t think too much about it. As a Witcher, Aiden comes and goes; it’s already strange that he’s been home this long in the middle of the year. He probably just needs to get back to the Path.

That is an entirely erroneous expectation, as it turns out. But when Jaskier finds out, it’s entirely too late.

*

Aiden has never particularly minded the snooty looks other Witchers send him. As a Cat, he only really has his own school to socialize with—and his family, of course, but that had been an accidental find, never to be replicated. If he meets non-Cats on the road, he usually avoids them. He gets their reservations; the mutation process for the Cats is less… refined, let’s go with that, and their purpose thus differs. If he’s sometimes a little bitter about the sneering, well…

All it means is that when he tracks down Jaskier’s Wolf, he’s expecting the assholeish attitude. He’s easy to find, and Aiden is kind of surprised at that. He hasn’t gone too far from the Dragon Mountains, which, perhaps, Aiden should’ve questioned, but he doesn’t.

He spots him in a crowded tavern, back to the wall in a dark corner. For a Witcher, he’s quite handsome; Aiden can see why Jaskier tripped all over himself to follow him. Curling, silver hair, sharp eyes. The beard must be new; Aiden doesn’t remember that from Jaskier’s stories. The facial scar is also not something he’s heard of before, but with Witchers, that kind of thing heals fast, and it has been some weeks since Jaskier saw his Witcher last.

He’s got the Wolf medallion and the silver hair. That’s all Aiden needs to recognize him.

He buys them both a drink, slipping one of his mother’s odourless, tasteless potions in before turning around. He’s already taken the anti-dote, it won’t affect him. The Wolf will have a surprise coming, though.

“Mind if I join?” he asks, keeping his expression neutral but friendly.

The curled lip is expected. Aiden stays standing, not close enough crowd, but still close enough that his intention is made clear. He’s not scared, and he’s not backing down. If he has to force the ale down the Wolf’s throat, he bloody well will. (The latter probably isn’t showing on his face. Probably.)

Wonder of wonders, the Wolf nods to the empty chair across from him. He swipes the ale from Aiden’s hand and drinks it down before Aiden can even introduce himself. He smothers a smirk. That was easy.

It takes a while to take effect. They don’t talk, not even to say a proper hello, just stare at each another. The Wolf seems to be daring him to speak; Jaskier used to lament his lack of conversational skill, way back when he didn’t know how to decode grunts and hums and loaded looks. Aiden wonders what the Wolf might have done to earn his brother’s ire. (Maybe Jaskier won’t mind if he gets his Wolf back with a few stab wounds.) (Unlikely.)

The glorious thing about the added potion is that it sneaks up on you. You don’t get drowsy in increments; one moment, you’re awake and aware, the next, you’re fast asleep. Not feeling particularly gracious, he just watches as the Wolf’s head thunks down onto the table. (What? It’s not like he’ll feel it.)

He drinks his own ale placidly. No one spares them a glance. When he’s done, he picks up his things, the Wolf’s things, and lastly, the Wolf. He carries him out the tavern and throws him over the back of his horse. He pats the Wolf’s head.

The Wolf really does have beautiful hair.

*

Fiona is snoozing, listening to Dave and Rosalind bicker gently next to her. Or rather: Rosalind bickers. Dave just patiently tries to lead her down the path of logic. It’s a losing fight, but that’s never stopped him. Fiona doesn’t care to join in, she just wants to be near them. It’s been too long since they were all together like this. She does wish that they’d returned home for kinder reasons than Jaskier’s heartbreak, though.

She raises her head at the sound of an approaching horse. Carrying a heavy load, she thinks.

Through the fog of night, Aiden emerges, glee lighting up his face. He has a heavily draped bundle slung across the back of his horse, something with a heartbeat and steady breaths.

Fiona rises, shifting forms. Dave hands her a robe, and they all stand to eyeball their brother as he draws close. Fiona has a very bad feeling about this; thank the gods that Jaskier has been ensconced in his room for days, working on a new song. Hopefully, this time it’ll be all spite, and not the incredibly horny limerick he’d presented last. Listening to that had been… well, it sure had been something.

“I present to you,” Aiden proclaims, scrambling down from his horse to stand dramatically next to the draped bundle. As Fiona is in human form, he signs as he speaks. “The solution to all our problems!” And he draws the cloth back.

The siblings stare. Stare some more.

Rosalind asks, “Who the fuck is that?”

Aiden blinks. “The Witcher. Jaskier’s Witcher.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, it is. Wolf Witcher, silver hair. It’s him!”

Rosalind rubs her temples. Dave, sweet, kind Dave, covers his face in an attempt not to laugh.

Fiona hesitantly raises her hands, signs, “Aiden, did you forget you’re colour-blind again?”

Aiden blinks. Looks at the Witcher he’s abducted. Squints. “What colour is his hair?”

Red. The Witcher’s hair is red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so I know Witchers likely aren't colour-blind, 'cus the mutations will take care of that (colour-vision seems like a very important thing when dealing with monsters, just to be able to tell the different types from one another), but let's pretend that the Cat-witchers are much less discerning with their Trials and so, a disability like colour-blindedness just gets shrugged off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is mostly Lambert and Aiden; we will get back to our regularly scheduled Geralt and Jaskier next chapter!

You know, all that this really goes to show is that you should never, ever trust a Cat Witcher. Vesemir must be rolling in his grave. Or, well, not his grave, because he isn’t dead, but ‘rolling on his bedroll’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

Lambert wakes slowly, consciousness returning before any control of his body does. Which is too bad, because he really wants to hiss and spit and bite at that fucking Cat Witcher. This is what he gets for being nice. It’s just not worth it. And he will tell Vesemir, and Eskel, and even Geralt that as soon as he gets out of here. Niceness is a trap.

Someone is carrying him; it’s not the Cat Witcher. For one, the hands gently cradling him are… he may be hallucinating here, but they feel like they’re the size of dinner plates. Not ordinary dinner plates, but those fancy ones the nobility use, the giant ones you can serve a bloody peacock on (Lambert has never actually been invited to a banquet, but he’s _heard_ that they serve peafowl). For another, the person carrying him has a rougher, lower voice than the Cat, and smells entirely different; earthy, kind of animal-like. It’s a familiar smell, but Lambert isn’t quite clear-headed yet, so he can’t place it.

There are other voices and smells, too. The Cat Witcher for one (damn him to hell and back, Lambert is going to string him up by his fucking toes, the fucker); his burning hatred encourages him to make note of everything, from the soft accent that colours the Cat’s every word (faintly Toussaintois, possibly southern, the most dastardly of all accents) to his smell (he smells much better than a Witcher on the road usually does, what the hell, does he carry a whole perfumery in his saddlebag? Bastard.) Overlapping his indignant squawking is a sharp, annoyed woman’s voice and odd breaks filled with the soft noises of gesturing hands.

Finally, he gains enough control to open his eyes. And immediately regrets it.

“Oh, you’re awake,” the Cat Witcher says. “Dave, put him down.”

_What the fuck. What the_ fuck _._ What _the fuck._

Lambert may be hallucinating. That, or he’s caught in a very weird nightmare. Or he’s dead and in hell. Definitely also a possibility.

He’s in a cellar, tightly bound and perched on a chair. Standing over him is the Cat Witcher with his stupid, slit-pupiled cat-eyes (figures that the School of the Cat would go for that kind of mutation, useless fucking cunts); then Dave, who appears to be… some kind of troll? A goblin? No, definitely a troll, despite only standing at around ten feet tall or so, practically dwarfish for his kind; he’s got moss-green, freckle-specked skin and magnificently decorated tusks; next is a tall, broad woman with shoulder-length brown hair, who may or may not be a canine shifter of some kind; and lastly, a petite nymph with a withering expression on her face. As it is autumn, her dark hair is shot with auburn and gold, turning with the leaves. 

“How heavily did you dose him?” the nymph says, peering at Lambert like he’s trampled all over her flower patch. He glares back. How dare she. He does not want for him to be here either! _Refocus your wrath, woman!_

The Cat Witcher wriggles his hand in a so-so motion. He gestures continuously as he speaks; Lambert can’t quite tell why. “Probably a bit too generously. But he should regain full control of his vocal chords just—”

“ _You fucking fuck I will fuck you up_ —”

“—about now. See! He’s obviously fine!”

“— _when I get out of these I swear I’m gonna rip your ribs straight out of your chest and stab you in the fucking face_ —”

“Oh, yeah, he seems real stable. Nice work, Aiden.”

The Cat—Aiden—throws his hands up. “ _How was I to know he was the wrong Witcher?_ ”

The taller woman waves to get their attention, then moves her hands rapidly. Lambert has seen this type of communication before but doesn’t know how it works or how to decode it.

Whatever she’s saying, it makes Aiden groan and the nymph laugh meanly. Lambert has fallen silent to watch their interaction, but when they keep going, forgetting to speak aloud, he cuts in, “What did you mean ‘wrong Witcher’?”

All of them start to speak at once but fall silent when another figure appears on the stairs, a figure whose eyes are so dark even the irises are black. He appears human. Lambert’s amulet is silent. And yet, the reactions from the four tell him that maybe this unassuming middle-aged man isn’t a man at all.

He surveys them all with a slightly bemused look, pausing on Lambert before eyeballing each of his… captors? Jailors? Really, Lambert isn’t quite sure what exactly is going on here, only knows that he will carry a grudge about it for the rest of his life. Yes, even after he has wreaked bloody vengeance on them all for daring to touch him.

The maybe-a-man crosses his arms. “Will someone please explain to me why there’s a Wolf Witcher tied up in our root cellar? One at a time, please.”

The tall woman steps forward, hands darting.

Dave—who will not be getting stabbed in the eye with a rib when Lambert breaks free—translates in an undertone: “Aiden thought he was Jaskier’s Witcher, so he abducted him.”

Who the fuck is—wait. That name. Lambert knows that name. He blurts, “Jaskier _the bard?_ Geralt’s bard?”

“Geralt is _Jaskier’s_ Witcher,” Aiden and the nymph snap at once, then glare at each other for daring to speak at the same time.

“And why did Aiden abduct him?” the probably-not-a-man continues, unbothered by the two of them. He looks at Aiden. “Did you not just have a fight with your brother about this?”

“He just said not to kill him,” Aiden wheedles. “So… surprise, I guess?”

Seriously, what the fuck.

*

Jaskier storms into the kitchen, waving his lute in one hand and his newly-written limerick in the other, “Behold! I have completed—pardon my Common, but who the shit is this?”

The scarred, beardy, redhaired fellow waves a spoon at him, grumpily seated a good distance from the rest of Jaskier’s siblings and their dad. He’s at the end of the table and guarding his bowl of kasha like one of them might make a grab for it, despite the cornucopia of food otherwise on the table.

Before anyone can answer him, their mother ambles into the kitchen. She’s not at her best in the morning, always appears to be more than half-asleep up until an hour or so after she’s risen. Thus, when she glances at the table, her eyes at first skip right over the stranger. Then, she does a double-take, and her thought process spells out across her face, moving from surprise to panic; _there’s one more than yesterday—who—wait—oh, shit—oh, no—I’ve forgotten one of our children_!

Before she can have a motherly meltdown, their dad cuts in, “He’s not one of ours, Harrow, dear. You could say the cat dragged him in. Literally.”

“Oh. Right. Alright.” She sits, peers at the stranger. “Paracelsus, he doesn’t look very friendly.”

The stranger bares his teeth.

“Well, he was drugged and abducted, so let’s forgive his attitude for now,” their father says, looking at Aiden’s victim with something approaching fatherly exasperation. “Aiden mistook him for his brother.”

“Brother—?” Jaskier starts, but then, he catches sight of the medallion around the stranger’s neck. A very, _very_ familiar medallion. “Hold my lute.”

Dave scoops it up and Jaskier launches himself at Aiden.

*

“ _What did I tell you_! _What did I tell you_! _What were my exact words_!”

“You just said not to maim! He’s unmaimed! And not even the right Witcher!”

“I take offense to that,” the redhead says, watching them brawl on the floor with only slight interest.

“I told you to stay out of this! I _told_ you!”

“I had to do it, Jask! _For all of us_!”

“Wait, what—ouch! No pinching!”

“ _You started it_!”

“Stop it! What did you mean ‘for all of us’?” Everyone, even the skeletons manning the kitchen, grow ominously silent. “Someone explain right now.” Everyone is quiet. Paracelsus and Harrow are looking determinedly away. Fiona is seconds from turning into a wolf, and even Rosalind is intently contemplating her fork. “Explain! _Explain or I bring out the bag-pipes!_ ”

Aiden, half-squashed, is the one to break. “Jask, none of us wanted it to come to this, but you left me no choice. I couldn’t take it anymore.” He draws a deep, fortifying breath. “Rhyming ‘Witcher’ with ‘bitcher’ is horrible.” A beat. “And the rhyme scheme didn’t fit.”

Jaskier gasps. “ _You’re all dead to me_!”

*

“—so, you see, that’s why I had to abduct you,” Aiden finished. “Well, obviously I had to abduct Geralt, but it was an honest mistake.”

The red-haired Witcher, who still steadfastly refuses to give his name, grunts into his fourth bowl of kasha. Knowing how hungry Witchers often go on the road, Aiden doesn’t judge him for overeating now. He pushes the big pot closer to him and smothers a laugh when the Wolf glares at him mistrustfully.

(He does eat a fifth portion, though. Clearly, Aiden is winning him over.)

From across the table, Paracelsus adds, “That does not sound like an apology, Aiden.”

“Yes, yes, terribly sorry, my bad, we’re all friends here.” He pads the Wolf’s shoulder. Gets growled at. “That’s his friendly noise,” he assures his mother, who is looking more and more sideways at the Wolf. Nothing good comes of Harrow becoming ‘concerned’ for her children’s safety. “See. Pat, pat, pretty Wolf.”

_That_ gets a reaction. Mainly outrage—but it’s a step up from the growling!

“Anyway. Now you have to whole story and you understand why I had to do what I did. So, in the effort to avoid kidnapping the wrong Witcher for the second time, will you help me lure your brother here?”

The Wolf wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Looks steadily around at them all; he’s calmed down considerable, especially considering he figured out that Paracelsus is a higher vampire. Harrow’s necromancy hasn’t so much been stated as it is glaringly obvious. All of them are beings he might get contracted to kill. But he hasn’t drawn his sword, despite it being within reach (Paracelsus made Aiden give him back his things).

The Wolf leans forward. Looks him intently in the eye (Aiden can’t tell the exact colour of his eyes, but it doesn’t matter; he knows that his eyes are beautiful). Then, the Wolf says, “No.”

And eats some more.

*

Lambert isn’t sure why he stays at the house. Maybe because he’s been having a shit week—and that’s without counting the abduction. He hasn’t eaten this well in what seems like months, he’s been shown to a room where the bed is soft and the fireplace is lit, and honestly, he just needs a bit of proper rest. Yes, so the house is populated by monsters, but it’s not like the forest is any better, and at least these monsters don’t try to murder him in his sleep (though he has no doubt that the necromancer _will_ take him apart if he looks at her children wrong. Which will be an issue, given that Lambert is still planning to shank Aiden.) 

Staying comes with a price, however.

And that price is nagging.

If it’s not Aiden whining at him to join in his scheme, it’s the nymph—Rose? Rosa? Something with roses—appearing out of the blue, _almost_ succeeding in breaking him with, “you know, this would probably really annoy Geralt.” Lambert will _not_ let himself be outwitted by a fucking nymph, but he only just manages to still say no. She’s cunning that one.

It’s much easier to tell Dave no when he, too, approaches Lambert at the end of the day, knocking at the door and respectfully waiting for Lambert to come open it. Which takes a while, mostly because Lambert is testing just how serious they are about letting him have his space, so he makes Dave wait. He does _not_ feel bad about it. At all. (Except he kind of does. How can a troll look so kind? Vesemir must never hear of this.)

“If your brother is anything like the stories Jaskier tells,” Dave says, a hopeful little glint in his eyes, “then I’m sure he misses Jaskier, too.” He doesn’t ask Lambert to help, merely leaves it at that, plainly hoping that Lambert will be moved by the goodness of his heart. Jokes’ on him; Lambert doesn’t have a heart.

In the end, it’s Fiona, the big were, who breaks him.

She’s so tall, Lambert has to tilt his head almost all the way back to look her in the eye. Though they do not share a language, she communicates her intentions clearly with her body, inviting Lambert to join her. He doesn’t trust her mildness, but he goes along with it.

She leads him upstairs to the bard’s room.

Now that he isn’t rolling around on the floor with his brother, Lambert takes a better look at him. Tall and broad, but lithe and foppish. An odd companion for a Witcher; if Lambert hadn’t been subject to Geralt’s own stories over the years, he’d doubt the bard’s claim that he even knows Geralt. He’s just… he’s so fucking loud, already nattering at them as soon as they cross the doorstep. It’s like being smacked in the face with a fist of sound.

Thankfully, he needs little input to keep the conversation going. One second, he’s telling Fiona about… some arch-rival of his? The next, he’s loudly and heatedly protesting Aiden’s earlier statement about his rhyme schemes. He very carefully never says Geralt’s name. (Which is a feat in and of itself, given that with just a look, Lambert can tell that almost every scribbled note in his room has some reference to Geralt. Gods above.)

“… and besides, I’m doing _good_ ,” the bard is saying, petulantly strumming a lute. “I don’t know why you’re all acting like I’m about to drown myself in the pond, clearly, I’m handling this with aplomb.”

Fiona meets Lambert’s eyes. She doesn’t raise a brow, doesn’t blink—but Lambert understands _exactly_ what that look means, and he has to contain a snort.

But just seconds later, she ruins that little bit of goodwill. She signs at Jaskier.

“She wants me to translate,” he says, “She says ‘I’m sure this Witcher has stories worthy of song’—ooh! Brilliant idea, Fee! Come, Witcher! Sit, sit, tell me your tales—”

Lambert, not seeing his doom coming, just shrugs and agrees—purely because he knows that Geralt is weirdly proprietary about the bard’s songs, despite claiming that he doesn’t care for music.

Fiona, evil deed set in motion, sheds her human skin and curls up on the bed to watch the spectacle unfold.

*

Aiden is in his room when their unwilling guests seeks him out, barging through the door with the look of a hunted creature on his face. “He won’t. stop. _Talking to me_.”

“Witcheeeer!” comes Jaskier’s voice from down the hall. “I need more detail! WITCHER!”

“ _Make him stop talking to me_.”

Aiden leans back. “I could do that… for a price.”

“You are a sick, sick man.”

“WITCHEEEEEEEEEEEER.”

“ _Fuck_. Fuck it, alright. Just… make him _stop_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little bit angsty and a little bit filler-y, and after than, we shall return to Idiots In Love!

Geralt is starting to think he may have heard Jaskier wrong. He’s been all over Lettenhove—which, truly, is not that big a place to begin with—but nowhere has he been able to find his wayward ba—friend. _Friend_. If Jaskier is to return to him, Geralt better get used to calling him ‘friend’. Gods know there’s no other term for him now. Why else would Geralt spend months hunting him down? Jaskier has wormed his way through Geralt’s defences. He’s not even angry about it anymore. Mostly because Geralt could really use one of those.

And yet, the second Geralt realizes what he’s done, Jaskier is nowhere to be found. Normally, you can’t shake him to save your life, but or course Destiny decides to fuck with him. He’d been so sure Jaskier had said he was from Lettenhove—that he was the Viscount, even. But he isn’t; it’s some prick called Ferrant. Geralt doesn’t know where to look next; Jaskier wasn’t at Oxenfurt, and he hadn’t stayed at the inn near the base of the mountain, or any other inn along the road and—

Geralt’s not worried, exactly. Just… tense. He has a lot of things to say. Apologies to make. It’s best not to let Jaskier stew; things go _wrong_ when Jaskier has time to stew. He’s already wittier than Geralt by far; it won’t be a fair fight if he’s had months to ponder Geralt’s every attempt at apologizing, or they’ll end up in an hour long argument where Jaskier’s every phrase starts with, “and another thing—!” He knows Geralt too well. There are too many petty annoyances he can accumulate for his arsenal.

And Geralt _knows_ he’d fucked up. It hadn’t taken him all that long to realize it; it’d sunk in the second he turned away from Jaskier, hoarse and angry and his heart beating like a drum. He’d gone too far, might have done too much damage. Jaskier has always forgiven him before, but then, Geralt has never called him the calamity of his life before…

Despite recognizing his mistake at once, it had taken him quite a bit longer to give chase. At first, all he’d wanted was to run away. Away from the mountain, from the things he’d said, the mistakes he’d made and the people he’d hurt (how had he even amassed a group of people who cared what he thought and whom he cared about in return?) He had run. Not towards anything, and therein lay his mistake. Running away only works if you can take shelter. Can’t exactly shelter yourself from a haunting, can you?

He’d wanted to go after Yen and Jaskier both. But Yen had said things that stuck with him still, things that make him wary of approaching her (beyond the knowledge that she would surely hex him if he tried, that is). Jaskier was the safer choice—and the one more likely to get in trouble, besides. He’s always needed Geralt in a way Yen hasn’t, much as Geralt tell himself he despises it. (He doesn’t. Not anymore, at least. He shies from it, sometimes, like Jaskier’s need is a thing too bright to look at, but that’s all.)

If he’d just kept his mouth shut, on the mountain, with the djinn…

But he didn’t, and here he is. In some Redanian tavern, definitely not worrying that he’s lost Jaskier for good. Across from him is Eskel (who had greeted Geralt with, “Long time, no s—what are you wearing. Holy fuck, _what are you wearing_ ”, and thus isn’t being spoken to right now. Geralt has _reasons_ for his new armour. Time will tell if those are _good_ reasons.)

How the messenger finds him, he doesn’t know. The young boy pops up at his elbow, squeaking, “Master Witcher! Message for you!”, then hands over the letter and scurries off. Geralt hasn’t even unrolled the scroll yet.

“What is it?” Eskel asks, trying to peek.

Geralt scans it. Frowns. “Message from Lambert.” _Assistance required. Get off your ass. -L,_ and a crudely drawn map leading to the coast, not too far from here. ( _We could head to the coast. Get away for a while._ )

Eskel squints. “Lambert doesn’t ask for help.” Not unless he’s actively dying, and even then, it’s a toss-up.

“Hm.” Geralt could push this off on Eskel. Go about his business, locate Jaskier, (get his arse verbally kicked), and then come back to see if the two of them gotten it all sorted in the meantime. But… _Lambert doesn’t ask for help_. Who knows what sort of shit he might be wading through?

They leave shortly after, following the map.

*

“This doesn’t look like the right place,” Eskel says.

They ride up to the manor anyway. Lambert’s map says it’s the right place.

The grounds are extensive and well-kept, the wilderness surrounding it so well-integrated that you barely even notice you’ve passed from public land to private. The grass grows thick and wild, mosses and mushrooms thriving. The trees grow unhindered, bearing heavy fruit. The manor itself is dark stone, built around the base of an ancient ruin from before the Conjunction, if Geralt is any judge.

It’s peaceful, and quiet apart from the scurrying and noisemaking of animals both high and low. And then the werewolf walks into view.

Eskel and Geralt both freeze. She is easily the biggest of her kind that they’ve ever seen, more bear than wolf, with a thick, glossy coat and heavy musculature. The sun is high in the sky, and the full moon was more than a week ago; the control she must have to manage her shift like this…

A few seconds later, she spots them, too. Her ears go up, then down. If Geralt had to guess, he’d say she seems surprised, even happy to see them; she wags her tail once, twice, her gaze lingering a little longer on Eskel than on Geralt, then turns and trots towards the manor. The door opens easily for her.

Eskel and Geralt exchange a glance. And exchange a longer, more confused look when the werewolf returns with Lambert on her heels. He does not look like he needs help. If anything, he looks well rested, dressed down to just his pants and shirt, his untameable hair carelessly pulled into a half-bun. In fact, he looks so relaxed that for a moment, Geralt gives serious consideration to him being a doppler.

Lambert opens his mouth and dispels that notion, “Did you take the long fucking way around? Or are you just getting old and slow?” He looks down at the werewolf—which isn’t that far down at all, her head being level with his chest. “These are my brothers, Geralt and Eskel. Brothers, this is Fiona.” She paws at the ground. He rolls his eyes. “And their horses, Roach and Scorpion.”

“Why did you call us here?” Eskel asks. “It’s clearly not for the wolf.”

“Nah, Fiona and I have an understanding. She doesn’t leave me alone with her youngest brother, and I don’t shank her… other brother, I don’t know his place in the line-up, let’s just call him ‘the prick’.”

“So, why did you call us here?”

Lambert jerks his head. “Technically, I only called Geralt. Fiona’s youngest brother has got a curse only he can lift—wait, what the fuck are you wearing? What the fuck—” 

*

High, broad doorways, plenty of hall space, sturdy furniture, and a warm, cosy feeling permeates the manor. The reason for the vast amounts of space become clear as Lambert leads them to a handsome sitting room, where a small troll is comfortably reading. On the way there, they pass several skeleton… _beings,_ busy dusting and tidying. Lambert passes by them as if he’s quite used to them.

The troll looks up when they enter, blinking big, dark eyes at them. “Oh! Hello!”

“Wait here,” Lambert says, then sticks his head back out the door and hollers, “ _They’re here_!” In an undertone, he adds, “Geralt, maybe keep a knife at hand.”

The people soon spilling into the sitting room are the strangest gathering Geralt has ever laid eyes on—and that’s including the dragon hunting party. A woman, who is very clearly some kind of mage, wearing more black than even Geralt himself; the man at her side, calm and quiet, watching Geralt with curious eyes; a Cat Witcher— _tch_ —who scrunches his nose at Geralt and goes to stand _very_ closely by Lambert’s side, what the fuck; and, of course, the werewolf, still watching Eskel.

“Rosalind is bringing him down,” the Cat says.

“What is going on,” Geralt asks, on edge from being surrounded by all these strangers. He moves slowly toward the wall, wanting to have it at his back. How to get Eskel and Lambert to retreat with him?

“Short version, or long?” Lambert, having always liked the sound of his own voice, decides for them before they can even open their mouths. “So, there I was, minding my own business...”

The explanation does not make things make more sense. Lambert talks about a drugged drink, an abduction, the Cat Witcher, about waking up here and being invited to breakfast. None of which explains why he’s called Geralt (and Eskel, by accident) to this place, this seemingly comfortable retreat for Witchers and intelligent monsters alike.

Correctly reading Geralt’s annoyance, Lambert of course draws it out, concocting some elaborate tale of the family’s—for they _are_ a family—youngest son. How he’s affected by a curse only Geralt can break, a curse affecting his very spirit!

“In fact, see for yourself.” He gestures to the doorway where at that moment, a pretty nymph appears, forcibly dragging a man behind her. A very, very familiar man; Geralt takes two steps towards him before he’s even looked up.

“—so important that you must interrupt my writing session, really, I cannot fatho— _Geralt_?” Jaskier gapes.

“ _Jaskier_.” He’s fine; splendid, even. A little messy, ink on his fingers and his chin; he forgets himself when he writes, rubs his fingers indiscriminately across his skin. How many times has he left such traces on Geralt himself? Uncountable. More songs have been written on his skin than on paper. “Jaskie—”

Jaskier screeches, “ _You’re all dead to me_!” And walks back out.

The silence that follows is… uncomfortable. Even more so as they all refuse to meet Geralt’s eye. All except Lambert, who quips, “Job done, now can we lunch—OW! Fuck you, Aiden!”

*

Well, that was an unmitigated disaster.

Aiden can’t help but glare at the two new arrivals. Obviously, his flawless plan has only gone astray because of them. Jaskier was meant to yell a bit, maybe shout a few of his new limerick at Geralt, but the walking away? What the hell.

No time like the present to find out what really happened on that mountain: “What the fuck did you do to him?” he asks, getting in Geralt’s face. All he gets in return is a stony glare.

Lambert pulls him back. He’s gotten very handsy with Aiden since they started their plotting, handsier than Aiden thinks Lambert himself notices. Aiden is _not_ going to say anything. (He has _plans_.) “Lunch first, yelling later. You _promised_.”

“Is _no one_ going to explain what just happened?” Eskel mutters under his breath, looking between Geralt, the empty doorway, and the gathered family members. “Seriously?”

Rosalind, a tad audaciously, sneaks up next to him and whispers the whole sordid tale—or at least, as much as they know of it. Jaskier _still_ hasn’t divulged the details to anyone except their father, who’ll take every secret he knows to the grave.

Eskel winces and looks at Geralt. Who, though Aiden still doesn’t like him, at least has the grace to grimace and look down in shame.

They all look to the doorway when Jaskier comes running back. Geralt stands taller, shoulders tight, face almost painfully open—only to be quickly beaten down. “And also, what the hell are you wearing? Who puts abdominal muscles on armour? _Who_ , I ask?” A beat, while his gaze lingers on Geralt’s chest—also highlighted by the god-awful leather brigandine, seriously, he looks less like a warrior and more like someone frequenting one of the… highly select types of establishment in Novigrad—and glazes over. Jaskier snaps back to reality. “So, there.” And runs off again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 29/10/2020  
> FIONA NOW HAS FANART GO LOOK AT FIONA LOOK AT MY BABY   
>   
> it was created by the amazingly talented [diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim aka CatsAreMyWorld](https://diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim.tumblr.com/post/633336167880933376/the-outline-of-the-digital-painting-im-going-to)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i managed to write a whole two pages for my thesis today so i celebrated by writing this also
> 
> cw:  
> \- emotional dumbassery   
> \- nudity  
> \- a little angst, a little fluff, a little mending
> 
> MORE IMPORTANTLY  
> THIS STORY (aka FIONA) NOW HAS FANART AND IT IS GORGEOUS (see link + art in the end note, the first picture was also added to the endnote for last chapter, BUT I LOVE IT SO MUCH SO HERE IT IS AGAIN)

A few days later, Jaskier watches Geralt, his brothers, and Jaskier’s brothers from his bedroom window—he’s not _lurking_ , fuck off, Rosalind—hands on his hips and a frown on his face. “That armour is just so stupid. Really, what was he thinking?”

“Probably that you were going to salivate all over him and forgive him,” Rosalind, the traitor, answers. She’s seated at the window with him, hands folded placidly beneath her chin. She’s enjoying all this way too much. “And, oh, look, he was half-right.”

“ _You_ try not to drool over his chest.”

“Hmm, no, I don’t think I will. Beauty should be appreciated in all forms, especially when three strapping Witchers appear on your doorstep.” She tilts her head. “Is the armour an accurate representation of what lies underneath?”

Jaskier sighs, half wistful, half aggravated. “What’s underneath is _better_.” He narrows his eyes. “Especially his belly. So help me, Melitele, if that armour comes off and I can count his abdominal muscles, I will do bloody murder, he _just_ got up to a normal, healthy layer of fat, he better not be starving himself—”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Opening the window, obviously— _Geralt_! GERALT! That armour better not be representative of your body! Don’t you dare grunt at me! _Don’t make me come down there_!”

Rosalind mutters something about how the only thing Geralt has been trying to do for the past couple of days is to get Jaskier to come yell at him, but Jaskier will nobly refrain from commenting on that. He _has_ talked to Geralt (mostly because his father made him), but it didn’t exactly… go well. And now both Paracelsus _and_ Harrow give them both _looks_ at the dinner table. Do you know what it takes to get Harrow involved in emotional matters? _So. Much_.

Instead, he rounds on Fiona, who is also watching the Witchers alongside the two of them. “And _you_. You traitor. You and Aiden both! I know what you did, don’t think I don’t!”

She thumps her tail, gaze never moving from Eskel. Jaskier can sympathize; he grew attached to his Witcher with just one look, too, tough in a vastly different way than Fiona did. Hers is a kindred interest, not sexual, as that is simply not something Fiona does. Mostly, she just wants Eskel’s attention and friendship—or at least, that is what the myriad wildlife kills she’s brought him over the last few days infer. She can be a little hard to read, especially when she refuses to meet Eskel’s eyes afterwards, or even be in the same room after she’s dropped her kill at his feet.

Jaskier would feel bad for poor Eskel’s confusion if he wasn’t so busy keeping Geralt at arm’s length.

He’s not ready to forgive Geralt’s harsh words yet (except he is, and therein the problem, because _fucking ow,_ Jaskier would like to think he has some self-respect, and that does not include placidly being Geralt’s emotional training dummy). Geralt is actually quite accepting of this, doesn’t push Jaskier for forgiveness. What he _does_ push for, however, is that Jaskier recognizes that he was maybe—probably—not innocent of any wrongdoing in their long friendship either. Which… that’s a hard truth to swallow. Thus: the arguing.

In hindsight, Jaskier can maybe, _maybe_ recognize that he’s had some… boundary issues. In that he’s ignored Geralt’s cues and rather rudely insinuated himself even when Geralt had explicitly told him to fuck off. Jaskier would like to believe that Geralt could’ve sent him packing, but obviously, he’d tried to do so without doing physical damage, and, well. It makes him feel dirty inside, knowing that he’s caused distress—which makes him worry that their friendship was never real, which makes him defensive, and rather intractable, and… he owes Geralt an apology of his own.

That truth had sadly not revealed itself to him until _after_ he’d yelled at Geralt to fuck off if Jaskier was such a burden to him. (Which had made Geralt yell that Jaskier never listened, which had made Jaskier yell that _Geralt_ never listened, and really, Jaskier can see why Paracelsus serves them both Disappointed Looks.)

Still, every night without fail, Geralt shows up at his bedroom door and waits for Jaskier to acknowledge him before he retreats to the guest room with his brothers. At eating time—and strictly communal event in this house—there’s barely a moment where they’re not either staring at each other or sniping. Truly, they are lucky that no one has killed them yet for ruining supper.

Jaskier turns back to the spectacle outside, determined not to think about anything difficult. “Gods, look at Aiden. It’s embarrassing how obvious he’s being.”

“Oh right, yeah, _he’s_ the most embarrassing sibling here.”

“Go _away,_ Rosalind. I’m not the one causing sexual tension at the dinner table! Tension, yes, but sadly not sexual tension. Really, they should just shag and put us all out of our misery, Lambert cannot possibly be so blind as to not see this—”

*

Lambert laughs, and then, the second Aiden has walked far enough away, he rounds on his brothers and Dave and goes, “Why does he keep touching my face? Do I have something on my face?”

Eskel and Geralt squint at his face and shake their heads. Dave heaves a deep, deep sigh and doesn’t say anything. In fact, he looks a little uncomfortable; Lambert narrows his eyes. He knows something. Lambert is sharp; he picks up on these things. Nothing gets past him.

Except whatever the hell Aiden is doing; now _that_ is a mystery. If he isn’t touching Lambert’s face, gentle bats to his cheek, soft taps on his nose, chucks under his chin, he’s dancing in close, pulling at him, holding on. He mirrors the way Lambert stands, sits, or talks, picking up swears like a champion, and makes so much eye contact that even Geralt is a little alarmed. And then there’s the infernal blinking. What the fuck is up with that? When Lambert speaks, Aiden will look at him, tilt his head, and very slowly lower his lashes before opening his eyes wide, not a quite a full blink. Lambert fumbles and fidgets when he does that, for reasons unknown. 

And—because clearly, he is trying to drive Lambert insane—there’s the scent marking. Yes, Lambert has recognized that. It’s hard to mistake it for anything _but_ scent marking when a grown man rubs his cheek against your shoulder. What Lambert can’t figure out is _why_. Is it a threat? A show of dominance? Or the exact opposite: an offer of friendship? Maybe an apology for abducting him, but Lambert is a master of grudges and he will carry that one to his grave. He likes the second option though: friendship. They can be friends _and_ Lambert can hold onto his grudge.

“Dave,” he asks slowly, “what do you know?”

Dave looks away and lies, very badly, “Nothing!”

All three Witchers cock their heads at him. He gulps.

*

“Oh, gods, what are they doing to Dave?” Rosalind exclaims and runs out to rescue their brother from the Witchers advancing intently on him. Fiona trots after her, most likely to keep their sister from escalating things.

Meanwhile, Jaskier and Aiden make faces at one another. “Could you be more obvious?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I stealing your spot as Most Obvious?”

“I’m not—fuck you, Aiden, I’m not obvious.”

“There’s not a single person on this whole continent who can’t tell how horny you are for—”

“Obviously, there is, and his name is Geralt, so clearly, I am doing well—”

“You really, really aren’t.”

“I will decimate your whole career with just one song, just you wait!”

They fly into a scuffle, which only stops when they feel eyes on them. Looking up slowly, they spot the Witchers and their siblings watching them avidly. Lambert has got his brows raised; Geralt is making _intense_ eye-contact; and Eskel is glancing between them and Fiona, who has almost come within petting distance. He looks a little gloomy when she gets distracted by a butterfly and moves away, but smiles gently when the butterfly lands on her nose and she goes cross-eyed trying to look at it.

Jaskier and Aiden break apart and wave awkwardly.

Aiden sighs. “I may be obvious, but he’s just not getting it. I don’t know what else I can do, sit on his face?”

“Not where we can see, I beg of you. Haven’t we all been traumatized enough from our parents going at it whenever we turn our backs?”

“You mean like right now?”

A beat of silence. “… they’re fucking in the lab again, aren’t they.”

“At least it’s not in the kitchen?”

“They’re the worst, the absolute worst.”

*

That afternoon, the dark, low-hanging clouds finally break, showering the Pankratz grounds with rain. The Witchers, being the stubborn, spiteful bastards that they are, stay outside, running drills and play-fighting in the mud. No one protests this overmuch, because they drop their armour and run around in just their soaked shirts and trousers, the wet cloth clinging exquisitely to them.

Rosalind, much too enthusiastic about nature, forces her siblings outside, too, and makes them dance around with her as the thunder rolls in, lightning streaking the sky. They finally go inside when Harrow appears in the doorway, hollering about being struck by lightning and not resurrecting them because it’d be their own damn fault.

“She do that a lot?” Eskel asks, pushing his wet hair back from his face. His scars stand out starkly, from his perpetually snarling upper lip to the slight split in his right eyelid.

“Yell at us or resurrect us?” Jaskier asks. “Don’t shake, Fi—FIONA. _How could you_?”

“The latter.”

“Well, some of us get dead more easily than others,” Rosalind chimes in, then coughs, “Aiden.”

“That was _not_ my fault—”

“He’d barely met Mum before he died the first time! Mum doesn’t usually resurrect strangers, but she always said that dying in Dad’s flower beds was quite sad, so she thought she’d give him another chance. You were, what… seventeen then?”

Aiden shrugs. “Thereabouts, I think. Just started on the Path.”

“Yeah, so, she resurrected him, fed him, and sent him on his way, but he just kept coming back, like a stray cat. And then one day it had been a while since we’d heard from him, so Mum went to find him, and he’d gotten thrown off a cliff, so she had to resurrect him _again_ , and there was no getting rid of him then.” She shakes her head solemnly. “Not even by murder.”

“No murdering your siblings,” Harrow says distractedly, watching her children and guests drag mud and water through the entry hall. She gestures broadly to all of them, “I had the skeletons fill baths for you all, of you go. If you get mud on your father’s carpet, he shall be sad, and I shall be very upset.”

They slouch off towards the bathrooms obediently. The Pankratz home, being as grand as it is, has a whole separate wing dedicated to bathing, the small communal both being on the furthest end, the private baths closer to the tunnel that leads back to the main house. That is where they’re all heading.

Except Jaskier hesitates on the doorstep. The Witchers have been here for a while now, especially Lambert, and while it isn’t entirely uncommon for them to stay in one place and recuperate, sooner rather than later, the Path will call them back. How much time does he have left before Geralt has to go? How much time before Geralt gives up and leaves him behind?

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Looks like he’ll have to actually deal with things right now, or it’ll be too late. He turns. “Geralt?”

Geralt, who had not-at-all incidentally been lingering in front of his own door, looks up at once, sharp eyes fixed on Jaskier.

Jaskier opens the door and makes space for Geralt to enter. “Come on.”

*

Rosalind, because she is a menace, pokes her head back out into the hall just to mouth the words, “Don’t fuck him while we’re within earshot.”

To which Jaskier makes a rude gesture, because his intentions, for once, are pure, damn her.

Aiden pokes his head back out his to wiggle his brows, and eye Lambert’s door like he’s giving serious consideration to joining him. Jaskier hurriedly closes his door to avoid getting embroiled in _that_.

*

Jaskier and Geralt have shared a bath before, when Geralt hasn’t had clean himself of monster innards, because Jaskier wouldn’t jump into such water for love or money. Whether it has been to save money, or because friendly touch of any kind is wanted when you’re just the two of you on the road and lonesome, they’ve developed what more or less approaches a routine.

The routine is this:

“Cedar oil still alright?”

“Hm.”

“I won’t add a lot, just a few drops, don’t worry; get in already, gods know you like it boiling.”

“Hmm.”

They strip down in silence, on either side of the room. The only sound is their wet clothes falling on the floor. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s gaze on him, searching but not desirous in the way you’d expect when getting naked with someone you’d wish were your lover. More like he’s gaging Jaskier’s intentions, or maybe whether he’s going to start yelling again.

Jaskier watches Geralt for similar reasons, but also notes how he, thank fuck, hasn’t grown starved enough for his abdominals to show. He has no new scars, no current wounds, and he keeps his movements slow, uncertain but trying not to show it.

They get into the bath. And that is where the routine falls apart.

Usually, they sit at opposite ends, careful to give each other space, but still knocking knees and ankles, playfully growling at each other to keep to their side. They don’t actually help each other wash, or if they do, it’s mostly to annoy the other, splashing about like children rather than grown men.

But this time, Geralt deliberately steps in behind Jaskier. His legs bracket him, not touching, just encircling, and his arms rest on the edge of the tub, making Jaskier rest his own on his knees to avoid leaning back against Geralt’s chest. He’s not quite sure what’s happening just now, doesn’t want to overstep yet another boundary.

They just sit and sit and sit some more. Geralt’s breath dances across the nape of Jaskier’s neck. In his mind’s eye, he sees the brothel and the whore they’d shared so long ago, feels Geralt’s hands tracing over his skin. The woman had moved quick, and good for her, or Geralt might have shoved her off the bed to get to Jaskier. She was _not_ happy to be booted from the room, especially not as they hadn’t paid yet.

Jaskier never has found out what made Geralt react that way that night; whether it was watching Jaskier fuck, or the kisses he’d playfully bestowed on her throat and shoulders, or maybe the even the way he’d rubbed the wetness on his groin into his skin, the scent of her pleasure all over him. Either way, when Geralt had finished with his turn, the next second, he’d been plastered against Jaskier’s side, wiping the traces of the whore from his skin, not exactly gentle, but not violent either. Frantic, maybe, though applying that word to the situation doesn’t make sense. He’s never reacted to Jaskier’s lovers before or since, so why the urge then?

He’s pulled from his musings by Geralt carefully and oh, so gently resting his forehead on Jaskier’s shoulder, drawing slow breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. Jaskier slumps, a little annoyed with how eager he is for that touch.

“Gods, you’re impossible,” he mutters hoarsely.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier flinches, laughs a little wetly. It’s the first time Geralt has said those words. Not once has he apologized in all the time he’s been here, only said he shouldn’t have said those things on the mountain. “I know. Fuck, I’m sorry, too.” A beat. “I forgive you.”

Geralt makes a noise that is neither a grunt nor a groan; a strange, sad, helpless little noise, accompanied by his hands now roving freely over Jaskier’s skin, exactly as they had that night in bed. Familiar, but not. Beloved, but not a lover. Claiming, but not like that.

Jaskier grabs at his arms, scooches backwards to press his back against Geralt’s chest. He’s not crying, but his sight is blurry. He’s not sad, but his heart is breaking a little. That’s what making up is like; breaking and mending at once.

“Don’t leave,” Geralt asks, voice so small it’s barely more than a rumble.

“I won’t. Not if you don’t make me.”

“I won’t.” A beat. “Not even if you write a song about this.”

And Jaskier laughs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK AT FIONA LOOK AT MY BABY  
>   
>   
> it was created by the amazingly talented [diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim aka CatsAreMyWorld](https://diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim.tumblr.com/post/633611188837744640/the-outline-of-the-digital-painting-im-going-to) who also inspired Fiona's little moment in the garden with the butterfly, this is for u, i love it so much


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think, THINK, next chapter is the final one, but who knows. i've only got plans to write Jaskier's and Geralt's ending, but we'll see if a bit of Lambert and Aiden sneaks in there (as they have snuck into my heart, the bastards)
> 
> WARNINGS  
> \- sexual content  
> \- men being... supremely dense  
> \- Rosalind having HAD IT   
> \- Fiona and Dave being cute

Lambert walks into the guestroom he shares with his brothers and looks around with a frown. “Where’s Geralt?”

“With Jaskier. They talked, fucking finally,” Eskel replies. “If you’ve got something to say to him, best let it way ‘til tomorrow. Pretty sure he’s trying to burrow into Jaskier’s skin and won’t take kindly to being interrupted.”

Lambert snorts. “Guess he’s not sleeping down here, then?”

“Pfft, _no_. Apparently, he ‘gets cold’.”

Lambert frowns harder. Of the three of them, Geralt is the least likely to get cold—and Eskel the most likely. “He couldn’t just ask for an extra blanket?”

“If you think this is about a blanket, you’re even more stupid than you look.”

Lambert sputters. “ _You’re_ stupid!”

“I’m sure if you tell Aiden you’re cold, you, too, can go—”

At that moment, Fiona slides to a halt in the doorway. Literally, given the speed she’d been moving with; she almost takes out the doorframe, and gods know the Pankratz house is built sturdy. She’s in her human form, haphazardly dressed, and still so tall that both Witchers must tilt their heads back to look her in the eye. She signs first, then raises her brows and rubs her arms; Lambert understands the latter, though not the former, as his signing hasn’t gotten that good yet (it’s kind of a sore point, especially because Eskel has picked up more signs in shorter time, and Lambert may have some… inadequacy issues that come out to play at the worst times.)

“We’re fin—” he starts, but Eskel cuts in, “Lambert’s cold.”

Fiona grins. Eskel smiles, too, a little shy as it’s the first time she’s truly met his eye and reacted so something he’s said. She thumps the doorframe, and within minutes, there’s a patter of footsteps and Aiden appears next to her. “What’s wrong?” She signs, and his eyes fall on Lambert, outrage all over his face. “You’re _cold_? Why didn’t you say so, you idiot!”

“ _You’re_ an idiot!” Seriously, what is it with people and calling him stupid tonight? Lambert is not stupid!

He voices his displeasure as he gets dragged upstairs, not that anyone’s listening. Rosalind and Dave pass them in the hallway, and Rosalind wriggles her brows at him. He glares—though not for long, as Aiden pushes him into his room and shuts the door on them. Then, he just scowls at Aiden, who is entirely immune and not at all fun to scowl at.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” he just gets told and tripped onto the bed. Rude fucker. Lambert doesn’t know why he puts up with him. (Maybe it’s because they’re friends. Friend who end up cuddled together all through the night—maybe Geralt has the right of it, because this is worth the inevitable ragging he’ll get in the morning. Aiden is very warm; he keeps running his nose up Lambert throat and even, at one point, nips him on the jaw. Odd time to instigate some wrestling, but then, Aiden is an odd guy.

“You’re so weird,” Lambert mutters and pushes him onto his other side. If Lambert is going to share the bed, he is going to be the big spoon, so help him gods. It does _not_ matter that Aiden is taller than him, height has no influence on sleeping positions, and that’s final.

Aiden sighs at him but lets him do as he wants.)

*

Now that they’ve talked, it’s easy to enjoy the peace that comes with being home, even if it’s only for a few more days. Jaskier can see the restlessness settle into Geralt ever so slowly; it’s in the way he’s started to bounce his leg when he sits down, or how he watches the setting sun with a frown. Witchers don’t have much, but they do have the Path, and for better or worse, it calls to them.

“We’ll leave soon,” he promises, and Geralt calms a little.

In the meantime, they rest. And talk—yes, Geralt does know how to talk, Jaskier has always known this; it’s just a matter of the right time and the right place. Usually, that time and place has been when they’re both a little drunk, both a little worn from the road, and they’re either all alone in the middle of the wilderness or barred from the public by a not-that-strong-looking door in whatever inn offended Geralt’s nose the least.

Now, Geralt visibly forces himself to engage in Jaskier in conversation where other people can hear them, something he usually refrains from. It helps that his brothers are here. They’re old hats at pulling the words from him, and Jaskier shamelessly steals all their tricks (one of them being that Geralt _cannot_ abide incorrect information about monsters. Really, Jaskier should’ve discovered that one ages ago. It was only the reason Geralt had spoken to him in the first place. _The monsters in your songs. They don’t exist_. He’s so grouchy.)

“Why _did_ you make all those things up anyway?” Geralt asks when Jaskier fondly reminisces about their first meeting to their extremely unwilling audience, who have been subjected to Jaskier’s storytelling way too many times. Especially _this_ story. “You come from _this_ , and you spouted _that_?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Sometimes, encouraging humans to needlessly check under their beds for monster is better than pointing out exactly how to spot a real one.”

“Hmm.”

They also talk of Jaskier’s aging. Or rather, his lack of aging.

“Mum grows this ‘special’ apple that she turns into a potion,” he says as Geralt brushes down Roach in the stables. “Allows me to stay young, as long as I want to. Though that’s all rather hush-hush, so no telling _anyone_.” Meaning ‘especially not Yennefer’, but Geralt claims that he’s not going to seek her out. (Apparently, her… _admonitions_ that the djinn might have fucked around with their emotions and ability to say ‘no’ have disturbed him, too. “She’ll always be in my life,” he’s said. “And I can’t regret that.” Jaskier gets that. He doesn’t like it, but that’s jealousy speaking. If he weren’t in love with Geralt, he might find the sorceress quite intriguing, too.)

“Knew it wasn’t down to the face cream,” Geralt mutters.

“Excuse you, that cream keeps my skin dewy, it’s absolutely vital to my youthful looks.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t _hmm_ me. It _was_ necessary, especially with how many times I’ve snuck Roach some of the potion—”

“You gave Roach the potion?”

Jaskier blinks. “Obviously. What, did you think your love and devotion was what kept her so spry?” Geralt keeps his eyes on his hands as if he must ensure that every single hair on Roach’s coat are brushed straight. “ _Geralt_. Geralt, tell me you didn’t think you had a, a _soul-bond_ with your horse or something equally— _Geralt_.”

In between, Jaskier draws up horrifically awful corrections to Geralt’s armour. “What were you even thinking when you got that?” he asks, balefully glaring at it.

Geralt shrugs. “People mind me less when they can look at my body and ignore what I say. Figured it couldn’t hurt to try it.”

Which… is one of the saddest fucking things Jaskier has ever heard, and one day’s he’s going to snap and murder so many people. Still, he has to admit… the chest-piece isn’t so bad. Is, in fact, really… hmm, quite lovely. And also, “the thigh holster stays. No way are you carrying your potions around in it, are you _trying_ to crush them all, but it _stays._ ”

The days pass quickly. They eat and talk and rest and play gwent. And get banned from playing gwent, because “mind-reading is not allowed at the gwent-table, I don’t give a fuck that that’s not a Witcher skill, you are clearly reading your bard’s mind, get the fuck out.” Given how much Geralt _loves_ playing gwent, being banned has him sulking for almost a full day until Jaskier deigns to play just the two of them. Geralt is unfathomably beautiful when he thoroughly trounces you at gwent and smiles, all sharp-toothed and proud.

*

When you spend as much time together as Jaskier and Geralt does certain… _boundaries_ get relaxed way beyond what would otherwise be considered comfortable or even wise. One of those boundaries is that if one of them happens to wake up hard, they just take care of it, don’t even leave the room or give warning. Rolls over, keeps the noise down, and gets it out of the way. They don’t talk about it, never have. It works, so why complicate it?

Jaskier doesn’t count it as having sex—they don’t do it together, not really, and they do their best to give each other privacy when it happens (and not to focus too much on the other, or maybe that’s just Jaskier). They’re both men, they’ve both got needs, it’s all good. But if Rosalind caught wind of it, Jaskier would be subjected to a conversation he very much does not want to have. She would ask horrible questions such as, “so you’ve known what he sounds like when he comes for _years_ now?” and “are you telling me neither of you have ever gotten off from overhearing the other?”

(The answers are ‘yes’ and ‘no’, in that order exactly. Or, well, the latter is probably more ‘overheard and _then_ gotten horny, so we ended up taking turns getting off and ignoring one another.’ But that’s not Rosalind’s business. It doesn’t count as sex, and Jaskier manages to avoid fantasizing about Geralt when it happens, because that boundary weirdly matters a whole lot. No thinking about your friend when you masturbate next to one another. They have a good thing going, why ruin it?)

One of those ‘good things’ occur the morning they are to leave for the road.

Jaskier wakes up from a very confusing dream about a low-cut dress, a candle, and a fortuitously well-placed table—do not ask him for context, those are all the details he has—groggy and over-warm and hips already grinding down into the mattress. Geralt is a heavy weight at his side, one hand splayed over the small of Jaskier’s back above the blanket. Judging from his breathing, he’s at least semi-awake. And not moving his hand. So… that’s new.

Because he is both barely awake and sleepy-randy, Jaskier’s higher cognitive abilities are not, exactly, present. Rather than shaking Geralt off, he mumbles, “D’you mind?”, and when Geralt just _hmm_ s placidly back, Jaskier turns onto his side. Facing away, he stuffs his hand into his pants, and gets on with it.

Let the record show that jerking off in the bed you share with your best friend—and unrequited love of your life—is a distinctly different affair when said best friend and unrequited-love-of-your-life has his hand still gripping your hip.

It is, in fact, really difficult to focus on anything else, not even the weird dream that had turned Jaskier on to begin with. Given how persuasive dream-horniness can be, that’s saying a lot. But no, the dress, candle, and table are gone from his mind. The warmth and aching need lingers, and so does Geralt’s hand, and really, Jaskier is not well-known for making good choices. He is much too aware of the firmness of Geralt’s grip, and the lazy circles he makes with his thumb, and even the deep breaths that tickle his across neck with Geralt’s every exhale.

Usually, when this happens, they both try to be quick. That’s only considerate. But it’s also considerate to remove oneself from the other’s space when needs must, and clearly, they are not doing that today, so… Jaskier takes his time. Adds a little flick to his wrist when his palm slides over the weeping head of his cock, a move that makes it hard to stay quiet. (If anyone asked, he’d say that it was too dry to go faster. Not that anyone will ask. Because again, _they don’t talk about this_.)

Geralt is squeezing his hip hard enough to bruise now.

Jaskier bites his lip to keep quiet and comes into his hand.

A little breathless, he wiggles happily against the sheets. “You need a moment?”

“Mmm.” _Yes_.

Jaskier doesn’t roll back over, wipes his hand on the shirt he’d careless discarded on the floor last night. Behind him, Geralt sounds like he’s settling onto his back, and though he’s quiet and muffled by the blankets, the sound of skin on skin is unmistakable and unignorable. Jaskier tries _very_ hard not to imagine what Geralt looks like, but honestly? That ship has sailed. Besides… he _knows_ what he looks like, more or less. Knows how his mouth goes slack and his eyes roll back, and Jaskier is getting all needy again, damn it.

Thankfully, Geralt comes with a grunt and then, all is quiet as he, too, wipes off his hand. On the same shirt as Jaskier had, even; he rolls over and almost crushes Jaskier with his stupid, heavy chest to avoid getting cum on the sheets and his own clothes.

“You’re a prick, you know that,” Jaskier groans at him. “Get _off_ me.”

“Hmm. No.”

Jaskier grumbles some more. But he’s not that upset.

Geralt smiles into his neck.

*

“Didn’t know you were fucking,” Lambert says to Geralt later. The scent of the bard’s sweat and lust clings to Geralt.

But Geralt frowns. “We aren’t.”

Lambert squints. “What.”

“We’re friends.”

“So… you just—”

“Toss off together. Yeah.”

“Huh.” That actually sounds… kind of neat. Maybe Aiden will want—

“ _Oh, my gods_ ,” Rosalind hisses at them, appearing as if from thin air. She storms off. “Meeting in the library. _Now_. Dave! Pick them up and bring them to me! I have to do fucking everything around here—”

*

“So,” Rosalind starts, pacing aggressively back and forth in front of Geralt and Lambert. Dave has closed the door and is resting against it, blocking their exit on Rosalind’s orders (and possibly waiting to swoop in and save them both from Rosalind, if she loses it). “It has come to my attention—to everyone’s attention, because, motherfuckers, you are _dense_ —that you are both incapable of taking a hint even when said hint rubs against you like a cat in heat.”

“I feel like we’re being insulted,” Lambert chirps. He shrinks back when Rosalind looks at him with utter murder in her eyes. She may be just a nymph—and only a half-nymph at that—but honestly, Lambert isn’t entirely sure she can’t level mountains with sheer force of will.

“Boys. Bastards. Utter imbeciles. I didn’t want it to come to this, but here we fucking are.” She sits down and folds her hands in front of her. “Let’s start with the basics. When two men love each other very much—”

“What,” Geralt cuts in. Quite bravely.

Rosalind glares. “ _Shut up._ I don’t want to be here either, but damn it, you’ve given me no choice—I can’t _believe_ I have to be the one to meddle, look how far I’ve sunk—”

“No.” Geralt looks away, a sure-fire sign that he’s uncomfortable. “What are you meddling _in_?”

Lambert would like to know that too. Rosalind blinks at Geralt, looks at Lambert, and blinks some more. She makes eye contact with Dave and raises her brows in a “are you hearing this, too” manner. He shrugs helplessly. Then, she scrubs her hands over her face.

“The way you’re both looking at my brothers and they’re looking at you makes me want to gouge out my eyes, and I’ve grown up with the most sickeningly in-love parents, I should be _immune_ to displays like this, but nooo—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Alright, alright, from the top now: I want you to nod or shake your heads after each question. Are you aware that some men like the company of other men? Sexually. Right, good. Next, are you aware that some men also fall in love with other men, as a result of or resulting in sexual desire? Great. Are you aware that that is also possible for _you two_ , if you so desire?”

Lambert looks at Geralt. He’s a little relieved that he looks just as confused as Lambert feels. But then, it slowly starts to fall into place. Why Rosalind is frustrated, why she’s mentioning her brothers when giving a—frankly weird—sex talk to a pair of Witchers older than she is (possibly. Lambert doesn’t know how old she is, and at this point, he’s pretty sure he’d get killed if he asked.)

All the weird things Aiden has been doing… put it into a sexual context and—

“Holy fuck, he’s into me.” A beat. “ _I_ am into _him_.”

Geralt concurs with a slightly unsettled, “ _Hmm_. _Hmmmm_.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the finale!!  
> p.s. an OC from another Witcher fic makes a tiny little cameo in this, 'cus i love delighting myself
> 
> Content warnings:  
> \- Lambert showing love  
> \- sex  
> \- ref to some of the traumatic changes that the Witcher Trials wrought, very brief  
> \- Geralt being EXTREMELY horny for his bard  
> \- Jaskier not having custody of the brain cell

Lambert storms past Jaskier without a word, headed for where Aiden is saddling his horse, Gracie, and looking neither left nor right. In fact, he seems slightly manic, a little wild around the eyes.

“What’s with—” Jaskier starts to ask but stops and faux gags when Lambert grabs Aiden by the face and licks him right across the mouth. It is _extremely_ disgusting to witness, but Aiden lights up like the morning sun. “ _Seriously_? Right in front of the horses and, oh, I don’t know, _everyone else?_ ”

“We’re leaving!” Lambert calls, completely ignoring the assembled Pankratz siblings making faces and gagging. He pulls Aiden away by the hand, and Gracie follows placidly behind. She’ll find some place to graze while her rider fools around. None of them deserve their faithful horses. _None of them_. “Don’t follow us!”

“Ten oren says they’ll be fornicating on the beach within the hour,” Rosalind chirps.

Jaskier blows a raspberry. “As if I’d take that bet.” He turns to Geralt, who’s come up behind him. He is making some supremely intense eye contact, and if Jaskier hadn’t been long used to it, he’d be very put off. It’s a bit like being stared down by a particularly thoughtful predator in the dead of night. “Ready to go? I got Roach ready.”

Geralt nods, never taking his eyes off Jaskier. “But we’re not taking the road along the beach.”

“Obviously.”

They go on their way—after a long, drawn-out goodbye with Jaskier’s family. Through it all, Geralt stays right at his shoulder, hovering almost. At one point, he even seems to be smelling Jaskier. Jaskier narrows his eyes at him but doesn’t push him back. If Geralt wants to be weird, Jaskier will let him be weird. And then question him obsessively about it later.

Just as they’ve passed out of sight of the house, two people step out of seemingly thin air, startling them all. One is heavy-set and plump with shoulder-length blond hair and loving, dark-brown eyes, and the other—a pirate—is tall and thin with stubble along her jaw.

The former exclaims, “I came as soon as I—wait. You’re not fighting. Not anymore.” They sigh dramatically. “I always miss all the fun. Couldn’t you have delayed the drama until I got here?”

“Thanks, Vaska,” Jaskier says sweetly. If Jaskier got to see them more often, they’d be another of his favourite siblings. But Vaska is… busy. Lots of responsibilities. People to see, orgies to conduct, temples to venerate.

“I dragged Erika all the way here for nothing!”

“I’ll live,” the pirate says. “Now can we go say hello to your parents? Harrow promised me she’d have a new potion waiting—”

They disappear as fast as they came. Geralt, having finally torn his gaze from Jaskier, frowns at the spot they’d been standing.

“What?” Jaskier asks.

“ _What_ was _…_ your sibling?”

Jaskier pats his arm. “It’s best if you don’t think too much about it.”

“What.”

“No, really, don’t worry about it—”

*

_Meanwhile…_

“There is—” _kiss_ “—sand crawling up my fucking ass.”

_Kiss._ “Be glad it’s not rocks.”

“Sand is just—” _kiss_ “—small, determined rocks.”

Aiden laughs, breaking away.

Lambert doesn’t let him go too far. They’re both sweaty, smug, and sated. Aiden’s short, dark hair a tangled mess. Even his carefully groomed beard looks like it’s been through a storm, and Lambert is rather proud of that. If it weren’t for the sand currently trying to get _really_ familiar with his ass, he’d instigate another round, but seriously, the sand is starting to reach for places that no one have reached before (places he’d like very much for Aiden to get familiar with; he’s heard about this thing from a whore once that he’s eager to try.) They’d put down a blanket, _and_ they’re on a grassy spot between forest and beach, _how_ did the sand get here? (Theory: the sand is out to get him. _Trust no one_.)

Still laughing, Aiden kisses his way up Lambert’s neck, slow then darting then deep, leaving marks from his teeth and lips. Lambert has never allowed anyone to do that to him before. Good sense says he shouldn’t allow Aiden near his throat either, he did drug and abduct him after all. But good sense can go fuck itself.

Except in one respect: “If you keep going, your dick _will_ end up chafed.”

“Well, if you’d taken the hint just an hour earlier, we could’ve been doing it in a bed, o delicate one—”

“I’ll delicate _you_.”

“Oh, will you now—”

*

Geralt is not envious of Lambert. Except he is. _Lambert_ gets to tumble his Pankratz barely a mile from the house, no doubts, no thoughts, just desire. While Geralt would _like_ to do that, like it very much, he forces himself to think it through, to slow down. He’s just gotten Jaskier back. He’s not going to push him away just because his nether-brain wants to make the decisions. (Which, historically, tends to really fuck things up. See: oh, every person Geralt has ever been with outside of a brothel.)

He _has_ to be sure. Not just about himself, but about what exactly Jaskier wants. Rosalind had hinted at it being more than lust, but… well. Jaskier isn’t known for sticking around or being particularly loyal. Jaskier is persistent, annoying, loud, greedy, and irreverent. He’s got the capacity for selflessness, but rarely ever commits to it, prefers to think of himself first and others only as long as they can be useful to him.

_But_. He’s stuck with Geralt through thick and thin. With Geralt, he shares his coin, his bed, his life. Jaskier doesn’t treat him the way he treats everybody else, and he doesn’t treat Geralt the way everybody else do. He _cares_ , despite everything, perhaps even despite himself. And that’s… really working for Geralt, it turns out.

No matter what Jaskier wants, Geralt wants to fulfil it. (Which maybe means that he’s not quite as wise as he wants to think himself but fuck it.) But first: _thinking things through_.

Too bad that Rosalind’s clue stick has seemingly knocked most of his good sense right out of him.

Before, he’d remember that time in the brothel only when he was pleasuring himself. Well. He’d only _let_ himself remember the brothel then and tried to banish it otherwise. (The salt and sweat and lust on his tongue. Jaskier pliable and laughing. He’d let Geralt touch him as if Geralt had always the right to do so. _Welcomed_ Geralt and his smell and—) _Stop thinking about it, you idiot, he’s right beside you_.

Except he can’t stop thinking about it, and if it isn’t the brothel, it’s all the times Jaskier and he have jerked off right next to each other, especially this morning when—

Alright, so it all seems offensively obvious in hindsight, but shit, it’s not like Geralt has had the time to think about being with men before. When he and Jaskier first got to know each other, Jaskier had rambled about Witcher Schools probably being hotbeds of boyhood experimentation. Which: not really. They’d all just been trying not to die. The Trials took place just as they hit puberty, and the sterilization wasn’t just chemical at first; sex hadn’t become possible until they left the schools in their late teens. Only then did their bodies and brain chemistry have proper time to settle. Jaskier had been gobsmacked to find out.

But then, once lust hit, it hit _hard_.

Still, sexual experimentation wasn’t really something that most Witchers got indulge in. The lucky ones find a semi-steady partner and went from there. But most of them only get to go to brothels, and often, their options there are limited. They may be paying customers, but they’re still _Witchers_. Besides, male whores tend to be either more expensive or more exclusive, so women have been the only sex available to Geralt, and thus all he’s known to want. Why invest his energy in looking at men, when he wouldn’t ever get close to one?

But now…

It feels like discovering desire for the first time. Everything sets him off, especially things he should be used to. Like the way Jaskier can’t seem to lace up his fucking chemise, flashing chest hair and collarbones despite the colder weather. Or how he genuinely laughs at Geralt’s dry jokes and sets the whole world spinning. Or the way he’ll touch Geralt, and let Geralt touch him. He never shies from having Geralt at his back, having his rough hand close around his wrist, or sleeping at his side. And, of course, Geralt hasn’t put a stop to their morning… _habits_. Just to keep from upsetting the balance, you see. (Yeah, Geralt doesn’t believe that excuse either.)

Still. _Think it through_ , Geralt shouts at himself. _Don’t act until you’re sure._ But it’s getting more and more difficult to not to shove Jaskier into the nearest bush and bury his face in his chest and strip the clothes from—

In short: Geralt may die if he doesn’t make a decision soon.

*

Geralt has been acting oddly. Jaskier is sensitive to these things. A master of deduction.

It’s been a few weeks since they left home. This close to the Pankratz property, there aren’t a whole lot of contracts to be found, but they haven’t needed them either, having plenty of coin that Paracelsus had pushed on them. Besides, Jaskier brings in plenty at inns and taverns. The colder weather brings people indoors when they’ve finished with the day’s work and laughter and stories beckon at the fireplace. If Jaskier wasn’t already honoured across the land, this streak would’ve cemented his glory as a bard of the people.

It means that they don’t need to rush anywhere. That they get to linger at the table, at inns, in bed in the morning. _Especially_ the latter. Geralt must be going through a second puberty (amazing what a week of rest can do for a man’s libido), because he wakes up each morning with his hand already half-way down his pants. Which means _Jaskier_ ends up horny, too. And then they take care of it. And…

Geralt always keeps his hand on him now. On his hip, on his arm, even once on his leg, nowhere near his cock, but he might as well have for how turned on Jaskier was. One of these days he’s going to accidentally touch Jaskier’s thigh and Jaskier is going to combust. It’s no longer just like blowing off steam, it’s like having sex. _Together_.

And! Geralt has the audacity to hold him after and smell his hair! That is the most horrible thing, and really, Jaskier should, should… _do something about it_ , because he’s starting to get hard whenever Geralt moves him around or _breathes_ a little loudly, and it’s _awful_. Jaskier should be resistant to his charms now, but noooo.

Then there are all the other things that make Jaskier’s keen observation skills tingle. Too many to list, really (except Jaskier has such a list in one of his notebooks. It includes: _offers me food from his plate, keeps pressing our shoulders together when we walk, sit, and sleep, keeps looking at me like he’s trying to work out advanced arithmetic in his head,_ and the crowning jewel of suspicious behaviour: _tilts his head when we talk like he wants me to kiss him_.)

If only that were all true! Gods know Jaskier would swim through shark-infested waters just to press his lips to Geralt’s hand. But it’s wishful thinking. Jaskier is rather known for that, makes sense his imagination would go into paroxysms now that they’re better than ever. Guess he’ll perish from unquenched desire. Would be a fitting death (maybe he should write a ballad about it now, just to ensure lesser bards whose surnames rhyme with _barks_ won’t do so later).

That night, Jaskier’s curiosity gets the better of him.

It’s pouring rain, and they, along with the entire bloody village, have crowded into the tavern to escape the deluge. This many people in this small a space makes for some interesting shuffling and mingling. To avoid the worst of the noise, Jaskier and Geralt have settled in a far corner. The heat is unbearable, and Jaskier’s already down to his shirtsleeves. Maybe unlacing it entirely and going topless would be better. Fuck, it’s sticking to him, it’s disgusting.

Geralt hasn’t met Jaskier’s eyes for something like fifteen minutes now, but neither has he looked away. The mug in his hand creak ominously. He looks faintly incensed.

Finally, Jaskier deigns to ask, “Something wrong?” Geralt’s eyes fly up; is that pink in his cheeks? What the—“You look constipated. Or like you need a little _relief_ , if you know what I mean.”

Unexpectedly, Geralt blurts, “Yes.”

Jaskier blinks. “The former or the latter?”

“Latter.”

“Oh. Oh. Well.” He grins salaciously. “We do have the coin for a whore, and I do believe there’s a brothel—”

“ _No whore_.”

“Uh, alright, but then, how exactly do you expect to—”

Geralt stands up. On his way towards the exit, he stoops to order, “No. Whore,” right in Jaskier’s ear. And inhales deeply, flicking Jaskier’s lobe with his nose.

… was that—oh, that _had_ to be—

Jaskier is up and after him so fast he almost flips the table.

*

_Fuck thinking._

With the door slamming shut behind them, Geralt finally gets to pick up Jaskier and bury his face in his chest hair. He smells like heat and lust, warm and heady. Even better is the way he gasps, and how his hands immediately grip Geralt’s hair, pulling him closer.

Geralt was a fool for waiting. This is _perfection_.

And so is nosing Jaskier’s shirt aside and sucking his nipples until they’re stiff and flushed. Jaskier whines. He’s so noisy, so responsive. Geralt can’t think anymore, has to get him out of his clothes and onto the bed, or up against the wall, or hell, down on the floor, he’s not picky, he just _wants_ —

But first: he should kiss him. Kissing will show that he’s serious, right? That it’s not just the spur of the moment, that if Jaskier wants him after, Geralt won’t run, won’t tell anymore lies or excuses.

He puts Jaskier back down on his feet. It takes a few seconds for Jaskier to find his footing, clutching at Geralt. With careful, grasping hands, Geralt tilts up his chin. He wants to kiss Jaskier stupid, wants to drive him as crazy as Geralt is for him, but instead, he finds Jaskier looking at him, pupils blown and stills. For a moment, they just sway together, unmoored, just breathing.

When the kiss finally comes, it’s not an ambush, it’s a slow conquest. Their noses rub together, their foreheads bump and cheeks touch, leaving traces of scent and went, until finally, _finally_ Geralt gets to taste Jaskier for the first time. How can a sound so soft break the silence like a clap of thunder?

“ _Oh_ ,” Jaskier breathes when they part, only to be cut off when Geralt surges back.

How they get to the bed is a question for the ages. Geralt certainly doesn’t remember. Instead, what he has left are impressions; fabric dropping to the floor, the taste of Jaskier’s breath, the feel of his hands on Geralt’s arms, his chest, his hips. He pulls and Geralt follows, never far.

“I don’t know how—”

“I’ll show you, don’t worry, I’ll show you, just please—”

Jaskier climbs into Geralt’s lap, straddling him with strong, hairy legs that Geralt have been wanting to sink his teeth into for long than he’s been aware. Jaskier’s hands feel good, but his cock against Geralt’s feels better. Geralt groans. They’re both too keyed up, have both waited for what seems like forever; they don’t have the patience for anything more than this, thrusting against one another or into the tunnel of their combined hands, and trading drugging kisses. 

The symphony of Jaskier’s sounds is a song he’ll never sing for anyone else again, and still Geralt drinks it in like he’ll never hear it again, sucks it from his tongue and licks it from his lips. The clumsy clash of their teeth just makes the whole thing more real; as does the way that Jaskier laughingly makes him take over when his wrist gets tired. His fingers snag on Geralt’s hair, and it doesn’t matter one bit. Wild horses couldn’t drag him from this bed.

Jaskier blurts, “I definitely had a revenge-wank to a fantasy that went like this,” right into Geralt’s mouth, a little hysterical and a whole lot joyous.

Turns out, that really works for Geralt, because he comes not two seconds later.

*

Three glorious days later, Jaskier looks at him suspiciously and goes, “Was it a coincidence that you pulled your head out of your ass around the same time that Lambert did?”

Geralt looks away. “Hmm.”

“… which sibling meddled. _Geralt, tell me who snitched—_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a little (LOVELY) comic about Fiona and her no.1 enemy (a tiny itty-bitty moth), check out this wonderful fanart (bottom of the post), created by the amazingly talented diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim aka CatsAreMyWorld:
> 
> [full Fiona Fanart post](https://diedfromembarrassmentlikeasim.tumblr.com/post/633227945472851968/fiona)
> 
> thank u all so much for ur wonderful comments, they make my day every single time. if you wanna, come say hi on tumblr! or yell at me about the Witcher. or books. i am not picky [purpurred](https://purpurred.tumblr.com/)


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